Sincerely, Fate
by nimbus2002
Summary: Draco Malfoy leaves a letter in a muggle bookstore. Hermione Granger finds it. Anonymity allows the enemies to fall in love over the course of hundreds of messages, even as they continue to fight in real life. Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Dark!Hermione and Dark!Draco.
1. Prologue

**_Please read this note. It is crucial to your understanding of the story._**

Plot wise, this story is canon compliant through the end of 5th year. However, it is set in the modern era. Think of it this way: I've essentially picked up all of Harry's time at Hogwarts and moved it forward several years into the future. This change was necessary to allow Draco and Hermione to communicate via cell phone.

In this story, phones are allowed at Hogwarts. That said, they're not popular and the service is unreliable. Normally, only muggleborns have them.

Nothing else is different. At least, not until the story begins.

* * *

 _Prologue_

 _"Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together?_

 _Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences."_

It was pouring.

Mothers grabbed their kids and turned up their hoods. Businessman muttered under their breath and held briefcases over their heads. Pedestrians ran for the shelter of the indoors.

Amidst the chaos, one man walked slowly, seemingly unbothered by the downpour. His blond hair and upturned nose were distinctly aristocratic, but his eyes ruined the image. They were the grey of a sky about to storm, and the danger lurking behind them was obvious.

He didn't seem to have a destination in mind. Instead, he meandered past shops and houses aimlessly. Then, abruptly, he stopped in front of a bookstore.

The clerk welcomed him as he blinked, adjusting to the heat. "Can I take your jacket?" She was pretty, maybe 19 or so.

"No," he replied, "I only need a minute." His shoes clicked as he strode to the back of the store. It was quiet there, long since deserted by earlier patrons. The section label read _Mysteries_ , but that was out of date. The shelves were really a mish-mash of every type of book imaginable.

He reached into his pocket. The letter was slightly damp but still, he decided, legible.

The man stared at the shelves for only a minute before indiscriminately shoving his precious cargo between a Greek history book and scientific journal. To be polite, he grabbed a novel to buy.

His task completed, Draco Malfoy stepped back into the pouring rain.

* * *

The woman loved bookstores. The smell of them. Their comfortable quiet. And, as the skies finally cleared, she could think of nothing better to do than walk to the one in her neighborhood.

The chimes on the door announced her arrival.

Alison barely bothered to look up from her drawing. "Why am I not surprised to see you?

"Possibly because I live here during every break." Her friend laughed, but the conversation ended there. That was one of the reasons they got on so well: both preferred silence.

Instead of chatting, the woman meandered through _History_ and _Fiction_. Nothing caught her eye, so she kept walking until she found herself in the back. It was her favorite part of the store, where was no logic to the book's placement. They just were.

Her fingers trailed along musty spines, taking in in the variety of textures and colors. There was something reassuring about the continuity of how the books felt, despite their differences. Except.

Except something was wrong. All of a sudden, there was paper without a binding.

Upon closer inspection, the woman discovered a letter in the sea of books. The lack of address and postage convinced her it was not forgotten, but rather intentionally left.

Turning the letter over in her hands, she mulled her options. She could turn it into Alison, but her friend wouldn't care. Neither would the actual owners. And it seemed a shame to waste such a potential for intrigue. Really, there was only one thing to be done.

The woman slid her finger under the fold, breaking the wax seal in one fluid motion. A single page slid out. Water had caused the writing to bleed, but it was still clear enough to decipher.

 _To whom it may concern:_

 _You'll never know me and I'll never know you. It has to be that way._

 _I anticipate being dead fairly soon. And since I can't stand the idea of disappearing from this world unknown, I'd like to tell you a story._

Her hands had begun to shake.

 _It all began before I was even born._

 _You see, my family is well known. Very well known, and very connected. It's just that not all of those connections are good connections. My grandfather became involved with some very dangerous people. From there, my parents were sucked in. My parents, and now me._

 _I'm not cut out to be brutal, and I hate the person I'm becoming. I save who I can, but it never feels like enough. I hate myself for it._

 _Do you hate me, dear stranger? I'll forgive you if you do._

 _Would it help, though, if I told you I was only doing it because I'm being threatened? If I told you not a day goes by without someone assaulting me or screaming at me? Are those suitable excuses? I don't think so. Because I know another boy just like me. Involved in it from the very beginning. Constantly suffering. Yet, he's never cruel._

 _I'm cruel._

 _Eventually, this life is going to catch up with me. When it does, I just want someone to know that I was sorry. That's all I ask of you. To remember that I was so fucking sorry it tore me apart._

 _Once upon a time, I wandered into this bookstore while dreaming of running away from my responsibilities. The people were kind. They made me feel welcome. I don't spend much time in this part of the world, but I think the right person will find my letter here._

 _If you've read this far, that's already more than I ever hoped._

 _Thank you._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Me_

The woman would never be able to explain what she did next. One moment she was holding that terrifying letter. The next, she was reaching for a pen and paper.

 _You are more than what you are made. You are more than your past. I hope you find this._

 _If you ever want to add to your letter: 44-020-989-3998. I assure you, I've heard worse._

The universe seemed to be offering her a thread. The woman was determined to weave it into her own story.

With that, Hermione Granger rose to her feet. She had a Burrow to get to.

* * *

Draco jumped as the wards he'd placed on his envelope were torn apart. Had someone really found it that quickly?

As shocked as he was, however, a sly smile flitted across his face. Whatever else happened, he would die with the knowledge that someone understood him. Likely not forgave, but understood.

He let the information sit for a few days. Then Saturday came and it was overcast, but not entirely unpleasant. So, for the second time in two weeks, Draco Malfoy made a rash decision. He walked to the town. It seemed ridiculous to bother with a glamour in the muggle village.

He didn't speak to the clerk this time. Instead, Draco headed straight for the back. The books were in the same order, so it was easy enough to identify the place the letter should've been.

It was gone.

Someone had read it and cared enough to take it. Wearing a rare genuine smile, Draco reached down for a random Greek history book. It would make a good memento, he decided, of being brave.

As he raised it off the shelf though, a scrap of paper fell out. A response, he realized immediately. He hadn't even considered–

The wards being disturbed paled in comparison to the surprise of the little note. So simple. So life-changing.

Responding would be another risk, but then, Draco had already accepted that death was imminent. He hurried out of the shop, desperate to somehow get his hands on a telephone. The _Mysteries_ sign bristled against him as he strode past. It was a comforting little piece of irony.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter Two

"Sometimes one feels freer speaking to a stranger than to people one knows. Why is that?"

 **Draco** _Hermione_ _ **UNKNOWN NUMBER (WILL NOT BE A MAJOR CHARACTER)**_

* * *

It's not unusual for adolescence to bring with it a myriad of challenges. Relationship drama, mood swings, and entitlement complexes plague the teenage years. Draco Malfoy could've handled all of that.

What he couldn't handle was murder. Even the word made him him shudder.

This frustrated Draco to no end, because life wasn't supposed to be complicated. The Dark Lord had returned. His side was winning the war. Draco was the youngest Death Eater of all time.

He'd been praying for all of that to happen since he was eleven. And yet, now that it had come to pass, things were worse than ever.

The glamour of having Lord Voldemort back wore off after a year. All it took was one disastrous mission at the Ministry of Magic, and the Malfoys fell dozens of steps down the social ladder. Draco's father was taken to Azakban.

Unfortunately, someone still had to pay for the failure. It was him or his mother, so Draco didn't give the Dark Lord time to think about it.

He'd wanted to die the entire time that the Lord was torturing him. Voldemort didn't even bother with the Cruciatus. Instead, he paralyzed Draco in the midst of his worst memories. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours, but by the time reality came back into view, Draco could barely breathe.

It was more than a wake-up call. It was an alarm.

He felt like a fool for all of the months he'd spent as a bystander. Since the end of Fourth Year, the Manor had been filled with the screams of muggleborns and blood traitors. Never once did had he tried to intervene.

Draco wasn't sure what his worldview was anymore. He'd been a blood purist for 15 years. That didn't just disappear; there were real security risks associated with bringing people in from the outside world. They did not belong in Wizarding Society. After being the one made to scream, however, Draco wasn't sure if their methods were justified.

Now, Draco was no Harry Potter. He had no qualms about torture.

He was, however, a man of morals. He didn't believe that innocent people deserved to experience hours of agony. From a purely Machiavellian standpoint too, the logic behind the Dark Lord's methods didn't add up. The old pureblood families that had enough cachet to orchestrate a quiet coup. If the name Voldemort wasn't synonymous with evil, he could've taken over behind the scenes.

From there, it wouldn't have been difficult to slowly turn public opinion against accepting muggleborns to Hogwarts. Those already in society could've been allowed to stay, provided they stayed quiet about the political changes. The average person would've been none the wiser.

That type of revolution would be easy for Draco to support wholeheartedly. Instead, what they had was an all-out war. There was no poetry to the thing, no subtlety. For God's sake, the Dark Lord had failed to kill a child on 5 separate occasions.

It was fair to say Draco Malfoy was conflicted. He knew the magical abilities of Voldemort were unmatched. By virtue of being open to Dark Magic, he understood more than Dumbledore ever could.

Draco was a Slytherin for a reason. He could tell which way the wind was going to blow long before the storm arrived.

In life, all he'd ever really wanted was power. He was going to have to marry some dreadfully dull pureblood girl, so there was no point in holding out for love. The promise of commanding respect and influence was all he had to hold on to. That was why he couldn't defect. He couldn't stomach the idea of spending the rest of his life as a second-rate spy for the Order, waiting to be caught and die a painful death. More important, he couldn't leave his mother.

It all added up to one inescapable reality:

He was fucked. Thoroughly.

There was nothing to be done and, as such, Draco didn't do much of anything. He lazed around the manor. He became increasingly cynical and bitter. He tried to think of ways to assassinate one of the greatest wizards of all time.

Lately, that pattern had changed. He'd taken up a new hobby, one which consumed most of his waking hours.

Draco liked to take out the muggle cellphone he'd purchased and stare at it. For hours and hours. The little blue send arrow had become his greatest adversary. When he was feeling unusually bold, he would write and delete hundreds of opening lines.

"Thank you for writing me back."

"I can't believe you responded to that letter. Are you quite sure you're sane?"

"I don't deserve this."

"Who the fuck reads something like that and responds?"

It was during one such period of indulgence that Draco received a text from an unknown number.

 _ **WOULD YOU LIKE TO SAVE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS ON CAR INSURANCE? WE HAVE A DEAL FOR YOU! TO UNSUBSCRIBE, TEXT STOP.**_

What on Earth was car insurance? More importantly, who had his number?

Irritated, Draco tapped on the message and typed STOP.

Or, at least, he thought he did. Then he looked down and, to his horror, discovered that he had not responded to the ad. He must have tapped the wrong part of the screen, because he was still on the one that read 44-020-989-3998.

There was a blue text bubble.

 **Who the fuck reads something like that and responds? STOP** 6:30PM

A collection of butterflies moved into his stomach.

Of all the introductions, he couldn't believe that was the one he ended up with. Draco nearly threw the stupid muggle device across the room, but he decided against it.

Instead, Draco Malfoy sat and waited for his last dream to be crushed.

* * *

The Burrow was loud. Then again, wasn't it always?

Still, Hermione found it comforting. There were enough people to distract her from her anxieties about the war, and Ron and Harry were both there, now that Dumbledore had retrieved the later from his horrible family.

The false cheer of the place did alarm her, though. She knew that Dumbledore had a plan, but it seemed the Order was woefully outmatched. They'd gotten lucky a few times, when Harry was involved, but without the strange magic linking him and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the light lost every time.

The opposing side also had the advantage of disobeying the Ministry. Her illicit research had turned up dozens of spells that could even the playing field, but most of them had been illegal since the 13th century.

Hermione didn't dare bring that of this up to the adults, but her frustration was mounting. She had more to lose than anyone, except for Harry, and she was constantly left in the dark. Again and again, crucial battles fell on her shoulders. Again and again, she went in blind, putting everyone at risk.

She loved her friends, and she knew she was on the right side of the war. It was just difficult to sit back when every bone in her body told her to become more involved.

Hermione was so completely immersed in these thoughts that almost didn't hear her phone chime. When she did pull it out, she was expecting a short note from her mother. She'd probably left something at the house.

Instead, it was a text from Unknown.

 **Who the fuck reads something like that and responds? STOP** 6:30PM

It was possible that someone had entered the wrong number, but there was another possibility as well. It was one that made Hermione nervous enough to excuse herself for a moment or two.

How to respond? She pondered the question for a moment. If it was who she thought it was, the text was quite a rude way to begin. Then again, after such an alarming letter, what had she expected them to open with?

She weighed the merits of a few responses before spending one.

* * *

 _I think you have the wrong number._ 6:34PM

 _By the way, I find it amusing that you end your texts like telegrams. STOP_ 6:34PM

Whatever response Draco was expecting, that was worse. He briefly debated getting a new phone and changing his number. The risk involved was too great, so he sucked it up and exposed himself.

 **I don't think it's a wrong number, I think it's just an exceptionally rude introduction on my part.** 6:36PM

 **I've been sitting here for a half hour, becoming increasingly frustrated with my inability to start his conversation.** 6:36PM

 **Eventually I wrote that monstrosity, which I proceeded to accidentally send.** 6:36PM

 **If you really are the person who left the note in the bookstore, do you suppose you could give me another shot?** 6:37PM

All in all, it was one of the more humiliating moments of Draco's life.

* * *

Whoever this was, they did not understand the social impropriety of doubletexting. Hermione had to slip out before the dings attracted too much attention.

She wasn't quite ready to let anyone in on her little secret yet.

When she checked, her heart skipped a beat. It _was_ the person behind the letter, and they seemed to actually care what she thought.

She sighed. After giving a mile, she supposed it didn't hurt to give one more inch.

 _Alright. Let's start this again._ 6:40PM

 _To answer your question though: the kind of person that believes in second chances._ 6:40PM

* * *

Hello! I hope you enjoyed Chapter Two. I know it was still a lot of exposition, but hopefully you're starting to see how the story will work. I also think it was important for you to know where H and D are at psychologically, given that it's slightly different than Canon.

Other characters will start have dialogue and play a much larger role as time goes on.

To ASJS: Thank you for leaving the first review and for letting me exhale after I posted this story.

To Koto: Your encouragement is so kind.

To munzke11: I'm glad to hear you'll be along for journey of the rest of the story.

To guest: I don't know. All I can tell you is this: I'm a more mature writer, and I plan to write this to completion. Sometimes life does happen, but I have faith in this story, and I hope that you can too.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

"What's in a name?"

 **Draco** _Hermione_

* * *

It wasn't hope. Hope, as Draco remembered it, was a warm feeling you could never quite reach. It was knowing the ending, but still thinking it might change the next time you read the book.

He knew how his interactions with the stranger would end. He would do something unforgivable, and he would lose them.

So no, he wasn't hopeful. But he was thankful for the temporary lifeline.

He repeated their words again and again.

The kind of person that believes in second chances. The kind of person that believes in second changes. Thekindofpersonthatbelievesinsecondchances.

It was only fair, he supposed. Life had taken every opportunity to screw him over. He deserved one miracle.

A story was only so long though, no matter how sordid the tale. He'd elaborate on his letter, then there would be nothing more to say. This stranger, whoever they were, would fade away. They might not even witness his predicted unforgivable act.

Nearly as soon as he realized the problem, however, Draco had a solution.

 **Alright, then. Round two.** 6:45PM

 **Hello.** 6:45PM

 **You probably don't know who I am, but I wrote the letter in the bookshop. I appreciate your response.** 6:45PM

 **That said, I'm a tad bit anxious about spilling my guts in real time. Letters are much more distant.** 6:46PM

 **Could we try talking and just see what comes up along the way?** 6:47PM

They responded quickly.

 _Fair enough, stranger._ 6:48PM

 _What should I call you?_ 6:49PM

He considered it for a moment.

 **Call me Holmes.** 6:49PM

It was the only muggle character he knew. He'd confiscated one of the mysteries from a Ravenclaw last year.

 _Oh, but I hate to be Watson._ 6:50PM

 **Options are limited, Lestrade.** 6:50PM

 _That's worse._ 6:51PM

 _I think I fancy being Adler._ 6:52PM

 **An interesting choice.** 6:52PM

 **Fitting, I suppose. You're the only one with leverage in this relationship.** 6:53PM

There was a pause this time. Draco would've been lying if he said it didn't worry him. It was a joke. Surely this person would realize that he didn't resent them for finding his note.

 _Well, symbolism is important._ 6:55PM

 _Worry not, Holmes. Your secrets are safe with me._ 6:56PM

For no reason at all really, he believed her.

Her.

The stranger had to be a woman. No man would've gone straight to a famous seductress. It changed nothing, he supposed. He'd never see this girl. Never meet her in person.

Still. Her. Draco treasured the detail.

He really was going mental. He needed to get back to Hogwarts, where his biggest problem was procuring illegal hangover potions. Except of course, that this year presented an additional challenge.

Now was not the time to dwell on that, though. September 1st was right around the corner. He'd make it until then and he think about the rest later.

He sighed, forcing himself out of his head as he stood. There was a meeting on the horizon.

Draco picked up the phone for the last time that night.

 **Much appreciated.** 6:59PM

* * *

Hermione was still smiling the next morning.

She loved Harry and Ron, really, but it was nice to have something to distract her from the war. The boys were a constant reminder of everything she stood to lose. Some days, just looking at them hurt.

They were both too oblivious to notice the pained glances she occasionally cast their way. It was one of the things she admired most about them, actually. Even after six attempts on his life, Harry still managed to worry more about the Quidditch Cup than Voldemort. Ron was the same, caught up in Wizard Chess.

She was jealous of them.

Her mind didn't work that way. She worked through a problem until it was solved. Since she was 11 years old, Hermione had dedicated every ounce of her being to being ready to protect her friends.

People called her a bookworm. Students laughed at her for taking every elective possible (with the notable exception of Divination).

She didn't mind the assumptions. Truthfully, she played into them.

No one needed to know that her whole life was defined by a quest to be better, faster, and stronger. Not for idle enjoyment, but to be better in a duel.

"I was thinking we could head to Diagon Alley today. I know you lot need books, and I've been meaning to pick up some things myself."

"Lovely idea, dear." Arthur responded to his wife offhandedly, much more concerned with the slice of pie in front of him than making plans.

"I've been dying for a chance to stop at Flourish and Blotts. There's some new texts on interdisciplinary transfiguration that I bet McGonagall would love for us to incorporate into our essays," Hermione added.

"Ah, yes," George muttered.

"We all know it's vital to incorporate post-NEWTS material into your sixth year work," Fred followed up.

Hermione scoffed, not bothering with a response.

Ron came to her defense nonetheless, jokingly inserting himself between Hermione and the twins. It was a move she would think about all morning, much to her chagrin.

She wished it had been more than an insignificant moment.

She wished she felt nothing for Ron.

Her feelings had showed up at the end of last year, an unexpected summer visitor she couldn't seem to get rid of. She didn't want to like Ron. It was inconvenient. It risked throwing off the whole group dynamic. And yet.

And yet she did.

Hermione knew she was more attractive than she had been in her youth. If anyone looked closely, they'd notice that her shirt was no longer regulation length and that her teeth had been fixed. She refused to tame her hair, however, so the transformation was subtler than some of her classmates'.

Hermione also wasn't an overtly flirtatious or sexual person. She wasn't about to change that, even if Ron did seem much more attracted to that type of girl.

Speak of the devil. He was suddenly next to her, smile in place as always. "Ready?"

She nodded. Floo was terrible, but she could handle it.

Diagon Alley was beautiful, as usual. She and the boys split off from the rest of the Weasleys, eager to indulge in new books and broomcare tools. Hermione needed a new pair of robes. Embarrassingly, the old ones no longer fit her around the chest.

That was a fact she preferred not to explain to Ron or Harry, so she offered to meet them later. They went off for ice cream and she stepped into Madam Malkin's.

About halfway through her fitting, Draco Malfoy stumbled into the shop. Hermione suppressed a sigh.

His lips curled slightly when he noticed her, but he didn't say anything. Perhaps his mother was a mediating influence. That, or he wasn't willing to risk her hexing him. Her money, based on the look of Narcissa Malfoy, was on the later.

The fitting took longer than excepted. The silence began to be terribly awkward, especially after Madam Malkin asked if they knew each other.

"Er," Hermione said, "we've meet."

"You're in the same year at Hogwarts, no?" They both nodded.

Malfoy cut in. "We don't see each other much. Rival houses and all that."

Hermione stifled a scoff. Rival houses. As if he despised her because of a petty school division and not her blood status.

"Malfoy just hates that I've got higher marks than him."

Madam Malkin laughed. "Jealous, is he?" Her conspiratorial whisper was easily overheard.

"Terribly jealous, I'm afraid. Why, he's positively green."

"Oh, very clever Granger. You want an award for that joke?" Malfoy was obviously miffed, but he didn't seem invested in the argument. That was odd. He normally cherished opportunities to verbally torment her.

Shaking off her confusion, Hermione started to respond. "Well if you have an award handy, I'm not oppos-"

"Ow!" Hermione raised her eyebrows. There was no way a pin had pricked him, but Draco was screaming like it had. He was so upset that he cast off his unfinished robes and stormed out of the store.

Narcissa followed him out.

Neither said goodbye, obviously.

Madam Malkin seemed a bit put out, but Hermione assured her they were always unpleasant. That seemed to cheer the owner up, and she gossiped with Hermione for the rest of her fitting.

She left half an hour later, armed with new robes, an invitation to return for tea, and an enormous amount of information about other people's lives. Hermione doubted she'd meet half of them, but it was amusing nonetheless.

Even though she'd already stopped at Flourish and Blotts, Hermione wandered back in. She wasn't looking to buy anything else, but there was a spellbook from the 1800's that was impossible to resist. Harry and Ron found her at the register.

"Thought you might be here," Harry remarked. Six years later, his smile was the same as it had been on the Hogwarts Express. Innocent. Naive. His hair was still messy.

The casual confidence that made him easy to follow remained. He was taller, though, and there was a new sadness to him.

Ron nodded. "You won't believe what we saw."

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "I bet I won't."

Ron was infinitely the same. He still loved sports and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He still believed the world was black and white. He was still the perfect wingman for Harry.

That was the Golden Trio. The leader. The friend. And her, the one to keep them both alive.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry explained, "went into Knockturn Alley."

"That's strange," she admitted, "but it's not a crime."

Ron shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand. There was something off about him."

It was going to be another year of conspiracy theories, then.

Hermione didn't say anything else. If a fictitious mystery would keep the boys away from real trouble, she'd allow it.

Half an hour later, they were back at The Burrow. After an exhausting day, everyone was ready for some peace and quiet. Besides, the teenagers returned to Hogwarts in two days. There were robes to be packed and socks to be hunted down.

After an hour of collecting clothes from around Ginny's room, Hermione collapsed onto the bed. She pulled out her phone, which had been left behind during their shopping trip.

She had one new message.

 **Okay, Adler. 2:13PM**

 **Tell me something innocuous about yourself. Something to make you seem more real. 2:14PM**

She paused for a moment before starting to type.

* * *

Author's Note: Other characters! Can you believe it? After two chapters full of internal monologue, this was fun to write. I hope you like it! I'm trying to set up the dynamic of Draco and Hermione's friendship. I'm also trying to show a different side of Hermione, one that is very aware of her burden. Worry not about her crush on Ron, by the way. This is a Dramione story. I'm just starting with canon.

Also, Adler is a famous seductress in the Sherlock Holmes books.


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